


Enough of a bastard

by qwertysweetea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angel not being very angel-like, Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Bad Decisions, Bad intent, Fluff and Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Revenge, but it's only mentioned briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: “Don’t look so indignant. You know full well that inner-demon has got the best of you on occasion.”Aziraphale floundered, mouth opening and closing several times before an offended noise emitted from it. “Since when?” He asked, affronted.Crowley smiled, an unsettling and shark-like thing that told Aziraphale without words at all that he had a long, long list he’d been waiting eagerly to recount.AKA: Six times where Aziraphale proved himself to be a little bit of a bastard, attempted to hide it behind his angelic values, and was maybe a little too quick to forget that Crowley is particularly perceptive to bastard behaviour: a brief overview (prompted by Crowley before being provided (in full) by Aziraphale’s accurate yet shame-filled memories).





	Enough of a bastard

**Author's Note:**

> Based in the TV universe, not so much the book.

Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, Crowley had said. He didn’t know what on earth he could mean by that; it wasn’t pleasant but he let it slide none the less. He was feeling festive, end of the world avoided and all that. It helped that the food at the Ritz was always scrumptious and after their collective and individual brushes with death, the dessert tasted a lot sweeter than any time before.

Still, sat back in his armchair later on that evening, the words danced around his head. Just enough of a bastard? Ridiculous! He wasn’t a bastard, he was an Angel! It wasn’t in his nature to be a bastard. Sure, he had thoughts sometimes; he imagined what things would be like if he retaliated in a way uncharacteristic of his kind, if he let himself go for a few moments and truly acted how felt just and righteous at the time rather than what head office thought was just and righteous.

It was the human influence, he would insist. Or Crowley, if it was easier to blame him. After all, an action which in itself wouldn’t be forgiving or used as an opportunity to guide others in the right directions wouldn’t be… well, _right_.

“Don’t look so indignant. You know full well that inner-demon has got the best of you on occasion.”

Aziraphale floundered, mouth opening and closing several times before an offended noise emitted from it. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah it has.” Crowley drawled.

“Since when?” He asked, affronted.

Crowley smiled, an unsettling and shark-like thing that told Aziraphale without words that he had a long, long list he’d been waiting eagerly to recount.

**Times where Aziraphale proved himself to be a little bit of a bastard, attempted to hide it behind his angelic values, and was maybe a little too quick to forget that Crowley is particularly perceptive to bastard behaviour: a brief overview (prompted by Crowley before being provided (in full) by Aziraphale’s accurate yet shame-filled memories)**

> i. the time he was left to pick up the pieces because nobody had told Job the plan (Biblical times)
> 
> _or as Crowley called it: the time you almost lost Heaven the bet_

It’s all very well of head-office giving the orders to stand back and watch someone’s life be torn, both physically and metaphorically, limb-from-limb. They didn’t have to be there to pick up the pieces afterwards; they weren’t faced with the monumental task of trying to persuade the shell of a human they’d left behind to stay on the path of righteousness so Heaven didn’t embarrass themselves by losing that ridiculous bet they’d placed against Hell.

“Come on Aziraphale, it’s just business.”

He knew what it was; he didn’t need Crawley… Crowley, whatever his name was now, lurking around behind him talking facts. It was all simple really: pick a devoted follower, tear his life apart, prove through his continued devotion that, in some small and pretty ridiculous way, Heaven had a stronger, nay unbreakable influence over humans.

Aziraphale loved humans. He loved the way they conducted and played with the short time they had, using it to craft splendor they would never get to truly appreciate, and he loved the comforts they produced and the strength they found in them.

Heaven was cold. Impersonal. Its strength came from legislation.

He could feel the irritation crawling up his chest, his throat swelling with it. He was annoyed. No not annoyed, he was flat out mad. And because it wasn’t in his nature to lie, it would be nothing short of characteristic for him to say he wanted to walk away from the sobbing wreck of a human, leaving Heaven to lose the bet and look downright foolish in the process.

The thought raced through his head; it felt almost beautiful in its justice. He could do it, you know. Walk away. The Earth had been around long enough to Aziraphale to know that he couldn’t stop every misfortune; human’s suffered and died whether or not he was there to hold their hand. Holding Job wouldn’t give him his family back and it wouldn’t bring him any comfort when he moved on from him to the next task. It wouldn’t matter if he turned his back on him now or late. He could do it. He would do it and be all the more righteous for it. It was a powerful feeling for the fleeting seconds he experienced it.

> ii. the time he unintentionally executed his executioner (French Revolution)
> 
> _the time you killed that guy_

With a flick of his wrist, his outfit became fitting for the situation, and Crowley held back the blink of surprise that came with seeing Aziraphale's own outfit on the body of the man behind them. He pretended not to notice, as he did when time started once again and two revolutionaries came in to escort the now-aristocrat out towards his death.

It’s not like it had been intentional, Aziraphale had reflected privately to himself, an hour later over their crepes. It was him or, well… him. And he was a bad man. It’s not like he had done it out of vengeance or anything like that. Self-preservation if anything. Being discorporated would have caused no end of questions; Heaven would definitely have looked into it, and he wished that Crowley would let his smug smile drop because any investigation deep enough ran the risk of exposing his influence over the whole thing and well… let’s just say nowhere they could run would be far enough from the Hellfire (and holy water) that would be close behind.

“Aziraphale, did you just kill that man?”

He swallowed down a mouthful of his crepe. He supposed he should feel some sort of responsibility, guilt even. Nothing came. “Viva la Revolution.”

> iii. the time he was almost arrested for being as bent as a nine bob note (Victorian London)
> 
> _the time you nearly got rid of love to prove a point_

Yes, he knew it was wrong. Fraternising with Crowley wasn’t just a big no-no when it came to the terms of his service as an Angel on Earth but morally it was dubious to the extreme. The being beside him was responsible for all sorts of evil, everything he fought to eradicate, his very purpose for existing.

But despite that, his company was pleasant, for the most part anyway. Good enough to dine at least, and this was his neck of the woods (he hadn’t been there long but he felt a connection with it) and he was eager to show it off. However silly it might have sounded on reflection, a part of him had always hoped the Angel that Crowley had been wasn’t buried too deeply in his history. That maybe, just maybe, the small things might help to bring it that little closer to the surface.

That was very hard to do when he was being escorted into the police station in handcuffs for ‘gross indecency’.

“Oh please, indecency! He doesn’t have the imagination to be indecent.” Crowley had shouted over the loud chatter of the developing crowd. Not that it had any effect.

The hand on his elbow tightened, steering him out of the restaurant and into the street. The air was frigid, still. Then so was everything else; snow suspended in mid-air.

Crowley was at his side, eyebrow cocked. With a click of his fingers, the handcuffs fell onto the slush at their feet with a clatter. “I’m going to start thinking you like them, Angel.”

“Oh hush.” Aziraphale hissed, head whipping from the Demon to the restaurant, to the frozen policeman beside him. He ripped his arm out of his grip, not baring any thought to being gentle.

For the first time in a long time, he felt indignation crawling through his chest. For a moment he wondered what the man would do if he flicked the switch off of love altogether, if it was his love that was persecuted alongside the one he’d attributed to him. Not for long, of course; he didn’t think he could abide an Earth without love. To be an Angel was to heighten it not take it away, and yet his temper was slowly slipping from him. He the policeman and all humans like him, watching their friends, family, lovers taken away from them one-by-one. Vilified, humiliated for loving one another in the way his gentleman club friends were, in the way he now was.

Crowley watched him from his peripherals.

He gritted his teeth, eyes still baring into the unseeing ones in front of him; his nose twitched with all the thoughts he was holding into, spun on his heels, and walked away.

> iv. the time he almost ended up in an office job (Regency London)
> 
> _the time you nearly lost your bookshop_

He really didn’t like Michael, or as Crowley had very aptly supplemented through the open door behind Gabriel’s back ‘Michael’s a wanker’. The thought of them stepping into his bookshop, let alone turning it into a base of operation on Earth made his stomach churn. His dream of the past several centuries destroyed only a handful of days before he could live it.

He could just say ‘no’.

No, no he couldn’t. That would raise far too much suspicion; there was a reason they were presenting him with a medal for his service. No Angel in their right mind would want to spend longer on Earth than they would have to.

But if he didn’t say no, if he didn’t object well enough, then he would be back in Heaven. Cold, impersonal, lifeless; surrounded by fake smiles and unrealistic beauty standards, miserable and lonely.

No, he had no right nor intention to fight against the decision his superiors had made, and yet for a moment he allowed himself to daydream:

‘No’ he would say ‘I am opening my bookshop in a couple of days and I will be here to run it.’

Gabriel would smile, looking at his companion with confusion laced on his brows. They would think he’d gone mad, the humans clearly have got to him. They would call him a ‘poor soul’ and say that it illustrated the urgency in getting him away from Earth and back into their realm.

He didn’t know what he would do after that. Maybe he would stand his ground and point a finger in the other's face. Why not? He’d already questioned him. In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘I’m not leaving!’ He would insist ‘I like it here and I’d rather face Hellfire than let you take it from me!’

When he pulls himself out of his thoughts, Gabriel is staring at him with that same expectant look and Arizaphale allows himself to believe, for a few very long seconds, that it could all be that easy.

> v. the time the wine split over a very special, signed first edition (1980s London)
> 
> _the Oscar Wilde, wine incident_

Aziraphale loved fiercely, it was a part of his Angelic condition; one of the things he loved was books. Signed first editions from authors he had met maybe once or twice before popularity had swept them off their feet. He kept them in a hermetically-sealed case unless he had taken them out to look at.

He should have known better than to trust Crowley to look at them at all, let alone handle one. It was his own fault really, he remarked around the screaming in his mind to pick up the glass containing the remanence of the wine and dash it in the other's face.

It was easily fixed, the other had remarked but he couldn’t recall hearing it, only remembered that it had been said as the wine seeped it's way out of the pages and back into the glass.

> vi. the time he called him nice (A couple of days before the end of the world)
> 
> _the time you almost snogged me_

“Nice is a four-letter word!”

Being pinned to a wall by Crowley wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as by some of the unsavory characters who’d tried to rob him in the past. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but knowing it was someone who meant him considerably less ill-will made all the difference. Crowley lashed out in the same way that children from rich families who had never been told ‘no’ did. It was more of a hissy-fit than a true act of intimidation and dominance, and both of them knew it.

Aziraphale wasn’t thinking of that. In fact, ‘what would happen if I ran my tongue over your lips’ seemed the single most pressing thought running through mind. Nose-to-nose, fists balled into his waistcoat. He could smell his cologne and the remanence of cigarette smoke on his clothes.

How wonderful it would be to see the look of pure shock on his face; he could almost taste it the static air around them. The confusion, maybe the horror and embarrassment. A Demon bested at their own game by the soft, innocent Angel. It would be so easy. Crowley had already done all the leg work for him; unintentionally he had put himself in the perfect position. He’d just have to tilt his head a fraction and…

“Sorry to interrupt an intimate moment.”

**.**

“Well…” Really, there wasn’t a ‘well’ about it. The resume Crowley had written out of all his previous sins was impeccable. He couldn’t argue, not in good conscience anyway. Not without making himself a liar.

Because Crowley was completely right.

> vii. the time he was called out for being a little bit of a bastard

“It’s funny you reminded me of that first edition you ruined,” Aziraphale muttered, picking up his wine glass and watching the ruby-fluid swirl within. He allowed his eyes to trail up the other, slow and controlled. When he got to his neck he saw Crowley swallow thickly, and he knew he could feel his intent. How could he not, the air was thick with it.

He stood fluidly, every part the dandy he had been throughout history, and rested the rim of the glass by his lips as he took his time deciding on what action to take. He would take a long as he could for as long as he knew it was making Crowley sweat.

A bastard? If he wanted a bastard, then surely he could give him one.

“Angel I- CHRIST!” Arms crossed over his face as he saw the wine fly at him and only once they shielded him did he realise it hadn’t hit it. Looking up gingerly he surveyed the damage to his jacket only to find none, and looked up at Aziraphale to find him with a beaming smile upon his face, wine-glass still full against his lips.

“Don’t fret my dear,” he said, “I forgive you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked reading and have a little spare change, please consider [buying me a coffee.](https://ko-fi.com/erinspiderr) I'm saving up to have my stories proof-read.


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